<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>With Both Eyes Opened by lethalhedgehogs</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29136336">With Both Eyes Opened</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethalhedgehogs/pseuds/lethalhedgehogs'>lethalhedgehogs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Lupin III</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Daddy Issues, Gun Violence, I mean it's Jigen of course there is, I tagged angst with a happy ending but it's more an equal ish trade of angst and fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jigen's mother, Panic Attacks, Sort Of, amblyopia, it's fairly minor though, it's mostly just one big headcannon because these characters have. no. backstory, jigen needs a hug, lazy eye</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:56:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,354</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29136336</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethalhedgehogs/pseuds/lethalhedgehogs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Try it on." She urged.<br/>He carefully set it on his head, it fell down a bit over his eyes. He heard his mother laugh, a sound he would never tire of. She tilted the brim up a bit and she smiled with both her eyes, something he could never do.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>With Both Eyes Opened</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>She was always the stronger of the two.</p><p> The earlier days always seemed like a haze in the grand scheme of things. Some memories were clouded over or forgotten in the passing of time, others felt as real as the day it happened. Sometimes that wasn’t a thing to be proud of. When Jigen was three, his father left their life. This never upset him, not really. He knew his world had been infinitely better without that pillar of danger looming over him. </p><p> He remembered the ‘good’ days, though far and between, when his father would come home from his work, greet him (if at all) with moderate contempt, and sit on the couch eating the cheap food and reading the paper. He'd sit there alone the entire evening with only the smoky smell of cigarettes accompanying him. Jigen knew not to go into the living room, not even on the good days. That was a rule and he followed it.</p><p> On the good days, Jigen stayed in the kitchen as his mother cleaned up the dinner mess, she'd occasionally let him help put the dishes in the lower cabinets. He would try to carry as many plates as he could manage, and when he inevitably tripped, his mother was always there to catch the dishes from falling. She caught him too. She always caught him. </p><p> Whenever she made bread, he would sit down on the table and pat down flour into the dough. She'd laugh whenever he got the flour dust on his face, and he would laugh back. She smiled when he tried to knead the dough that was still too sticky to cooperate. As they put the dough into the oven, she would set the tray on the edge of the oven rack and he'd gently push it in. As the bread baked they'd tidy up the kitchen, it was always a mess, but they cleaned it together, so neither of them minded. </p><p> Those were good days, but they never lasted.</p><p> Jigen didn’t like the bad days. Even as a toddler, he could tell when to stay hidden. His father would stomp in the house, footsteps echoing ‘<em> Danger!’ </em> across the small apartment. His suitcase would slam on the ground near the door, he would go to the couch. Sometimes he would read the paper, sometimes he would just sit and smoke his cigarette, sometimes Jigen could see blood on his hands. </p><p> The blood made Jigen’s eye twitch</p><p> Somedays, when his mother would bring the dinner into his father, he would yell at her. Jigen didn’t know why, his mom never did anything wrong. Sometimes he hit her. Jigen only saw him hit her once, he didn't mean to see it, he really didn't. He was hiding in the corner of the kitchen, playing with his cars, when the man started yelling, it was louder than usual. Jigen only meant to sneak into his room quietly, but his vision was too shaky and he bumped into the side table near the couch. There was a shattering noise.</p><p> A beer bottle had been sitting on the table. It was on the floor now, in pieces. The putrid liquid soaking into the rickety floorboards. Jigen remembered his mom appearing in front of him, blocking the view of his father. He remembered screaming, he doesn't remember what was said. He knew it was about him.</p><p> He didn’t want to cause more trouble. He started to tiptoe back to his room when his mother fell to the floor. There was a handprint on her face. There was a handprint on his face too. It was there when he woke up and looked in the mirror later that night. He didn’t remember ever falling asleep.</p><p> He remembered his mother coming into his room the next morning, she gingerly shook his shoulder. When he looked up her eyes were red and puffy, so were his.</p><p> "We're going to leave for a while, Daisuke." She had said. "We're going on a trip together. Just you and me, I need you to go eat your breakfast while I pack your backpack. "</p><p>They had ridden the bus since his father was using their only car. When they got off that bus, they hopped in another one. He remembered holding his mom tightly, she held him tighter as they watched the city get smaller and smaller.</p><p> </p><p> They stayed in a motel for a few weeks. Jigen had never been in a motel. The beds were comfier and the water was warmer. He had trouble falling asleep, he was afraid his dad would come to bring them back, but Jigen knew his mom was right there and she wouldn’t let that happen. She was always right there.</p><p>"Your face is all better now." Is what he told her one night when they were in bed.</p><p>"Is that right?" Her voice was both raspy and comforting. Just as it should be.</p><p>"Yeah. Is my face all better?"</p><p>"Your face is perfect."</p><p>Jigen laid there for a moment. "I'm sorry dad hit you. I bumped into the table."</p><p>"I know, sweetheart."</p><p>"I didn't mean to."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"My eye messed up again."</p><p>"Daisuke."</p><p>"I'm sorry my eye messed up."</p><p>"Daisuke."</p><p> She put her hands on either side of his face, he looked up at her. She was a bit blurry, but he kept his eyes on his mother. He had to.</p><p>"Nothing is wrong with you, Daisuke. I love you, and that's all that matters. Your father can't bother us anymore, you have nothing to worry about."</p><p> Jigen didn't argue. He never argued with her. He only nodded his head and leaned back against her side. Sighing softly as he felt her hand run through his hair. His eye twitched but he ignored it, nothing was wrong with him. That's what she had said, and his mom was always right, he was sure of it. His eye twitched twice more before falling asleep.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> By the time Jigen was seven, they had lived in their cabin for two years now. It was a small two room log cabin deep in the woods, with no electricity and no running water. It was cold in the winter and hot in the summer, they grew their own vegetables and caught their own meat. The roof leaked, the beds were worn, the oil lamps would constantly burn out, but none of it mattered because his mom was always there.</p><p> She learned how to patch up the roof, how to skin animals, how to work the grounds, how to boil water to make it drinkable. She mended their clothes, filled the fireplace, kept the floors swept so as to not attract critters. She cooked dinner with what they had, and rubbed his twitching eye as he fell asleep. She changed, he noticed. Her eyes were more tired, her hands were hard and calloused, her hair was messy and her dresses were always ragged at the ends. But there was a fire to her, a sense of freedom that grew stronger with every passing day. She was happy. So he was too.</p><p> </p><p> He tried to go to school when he was eight. He really tried. He wanted to do his best. She deserved his best. He just couldn't do it. It was a small country schoolhouse, less than three-hundred students in all, but they were all better than him in some way. The children in his grade were younger, the kids his age were smarter, they were stronger, their vocabulary was better, their accents were different. He was different. </p><p> He'd stumble up the concrete steps of the building. He'd constantly bump into the other kids on the way to his desk. He sat under an oak tree at lunch, alone. He noticed the other kids would have more food, more friends, they were happy to be here. He'd silently watch them play hide-and-seek, or tag. On his first day he was invited to play tag, more out of pity than kindness. He fell over the rocks a few times, the kids laughed as his knees bled more and more with every stumble. His eye twitched. He tried to tag the others, but he could rarely get close enough. The few times he caught up, the image of one person would shakily distort into two figures, he would reach out to tag them, but ultimately just swiped through thin air. He fell as they kept running. They kept running. He walked back to the schoolhouse. His eye twitched.</p><p> His eye only bothered him more and more. His mom told him he was a normal kid, that he shouldn't be ashamed of it. She was the only person with that opinion. The girls would point and whisper, they boys would laugh and smack his head, the teachers gave him strange looks and frowned at each other when they thought he couldn’t see them. His eye twitched. He brushed his bangs over his face as best he could. He walked with his head down and shoulders hunched. He never tried to look anyone in the eyes. He couldn’t do it properly anyways.</p><p> He wanted to do his homework, but the more he tried to focus, the more headaches he received. The words were always doubled or blurry. He squinted hard, but that only worked for so long. In class he would cover his hand over his eye to read the blackboard. He could hear the whispers, could feel the stares. His eye twitched again.</p><p> Lazy eye. That was the name of it, he was told. His mother was sitting in the room with him and his teacher. He listened as the woman explained how badly he was getting along with the other students, how he never answered questions, how he never completed his assignments, how he wouldn't read passages when asked to. He was 'mentally retarded'. That's what she had said. He knew that wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Was it? Or was the teacher right? Teachers are supposed to be wise aren't they? That’s what he thought.</p><p> He remembered his mother yelling at the teacher. He remembered her grabbing his hand and walking out of the school. The other kids whispered as they left. They always whispered. One of the older boys tried to trip him on his way out. His mother snapped at the boy telling him to get back. The kid shrank away, his mother was intimidating when she wanted to be. He wished he could be like that.</p><p> She didn't make him go back to school.</p><p> Jigen learned what he needed to at home. There were no tests he couldn't read, no writing assignments he couldn't focus on, no speeches to fumble his way through. Just his mom. That's all there was. She taught him how to cook squirrels over a fire, how to hold a knife, how to tell which of the berries were right to eat. He learned how to mend torn pants, how to fix a broken door hinge, how to wash the laundry. She would take him out into the woods, an axe in each hand, and showed him how to chop firewood. How to bundle it up tightly. He didn't hit the tree every time. Sometimes his eye would twitch at the wrong moment, sometimes he lost focus and his vision would blur. She never scolded him, only urged on to keep going. He did his best, always his best for her. </p><p> They would walk back to the cabin, bundles of wood held tight on their backs. Her load was heavier. It always was.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> Jigen was eleven when mom bought the truck. It was old, it needed repairs, and it was almost always smoking. But it was <em> their </em>truck, and his mom would always fix it the best she could. It was never perfect, but it never needed to be.</p><p> Jigen would ride with her into town, it was about half an hour away, but he didn't mind. He would help set up a booth to sell their fruits and vegetables, occasionally they sold meat if they had enough stored back at the cabin. They would buy groceries they couldn't grow in the garden or catch in the woods. They bought new fabric, enough for an outfit or two. One time she bought a chocolate for Jigen, he savored every bite, it was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. He refused to eat all of it.</p><p>"You deserve some too, mom." Is what he said.</p><p> She took some. Eventually. She could be a stubborn woman, but so could he.</p><p> He was thankful that the townspeople didn't seem to notice his condition, at least not as much as the school children. Some of it was his own doing, he still kept his bangs long and covering the left portion of his face. His head was always down unless he was talking to his mother. Sometimes people would comment about how thin he was, that he should stand up straighter, that he shouldn't mumble so much, that he should cut his hair. They never commented about his eye. He would stumble, or twitch, and he never received backlash from them. Nothing more than a few odd stares, and if there were whispers being spoken, they were always behind closed doors.</p><p> No matter what their opinion was of him, they like his mother well enough. ‘<em> That’s more important’ </em> is what he decided.</p><p> One evening, after they returned to the cabin after a long day in town, his mother pulled him to the couch. In her hands was a fairly large box, her eyes twinkled as he lifted it up.</p><p>"Happy birthday, Daisuke." She said with a smile.</p><p> He'd forgotten it was his birthday. She never did, though. </p><p> He opened the package and gave a small gasp. Inside was a fedora. Slick. Unscathed. Almost black. It wasn't hand-made, or passed down from another. It was brand new. He was almost afraid to touch it, afraid he might somehow ruin the precious material. It must have cost her a fortune.</p><p>"Try it on." She urged.</p><p> He carefully set it on his head, it fell down a bit over his eyes. He heard his mother laugh, a sound he would never tire of. She tilted the brim up a bit and she smiled with both her eyes, something he could never do.</p><p>"It suits you wonderfully." His mother laughed. She adjusted it a bit and fixed his bangs so the hat kept them pulled to the side. "I had hoped it might help you a bit. To hold your hair in place when you want to focus more."</p><p> He got up to look in the mirror, she was right, it was a bit big, but it suited him. He felt more complete, though he couldn't explain why. He embraced his mother. Her grip was tighter. It always was.</p><p>"Thank you." He spoke softly into her shirt.</p><p> She stroked his hair, and hummed for a moment.</p><p>"I have one more present for you today."</p><p> She led him outside, it was growing dark.</p><p> The day Jigen turned twelve was the day he shot his first rifle.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> He was older, just past sixteen. Jigen did most of the heavy lifting now, he changed the oil on the truck, he fixed the leaks in the roof, he chopped the firewood and stacked it up alongside the house.  He was getting better at hunting. Holding the rifle became a familiar comfort, alongside his fedora. He would set up targets in the woods to see from how far away he could shoot it. His eye twitched. He simply adjusted his fedora so that his bangs fell across his face in a comforting manner. He pulled the trigger. He hit the target. He went hunting more often, eventually it was more for sport than for the food. He challenged himself. He won every time. He took half the game he caught and sold it in town, he would get compliments on his marksmanship. He was proud of it, but not too proud, he could never take all the credit. As the sun started to set he would pack up the crates in the truck bed and drive home. One of the headlights on the truck was busted, he'd have to fix it later. His eye twitched. He tilted his hat lower.</p><p> His mother fell ill that December. He bought more blankets, he experimented with different soups, he fetched more water from the river than usual. When he wasn’t taking care of her he’d be selling in the market. Eventually he had saved enough to buy the proper medicine. It seemed to work, but not fast enough. He could only do so much. Most nights he would sit by her bedside as she coughed her throat dry. He'd offer her water in between fits. He had a bucket on hand for when she couldn't hold her soup down long enough, she would hack away long into the night. On the bad nights he would see blood. Jigen prayed she would make it through the winter, there wasn't anything else he could do. He tried to be the pillar she needed him to be, but he was afraid it wasn't enough. He would wait until she drifted off to sleep to let himself cry. He did it softly, his eye would twitch, he clutched her hand tight and his hat tighter. She stayed strong, she was always strong. He wondered how she did it.</p><p> She healed fully by the time spring came about. He knew she would, no matter how many small voices told him it was impossible. That she would die in that bed. That he'd be left alone. Some nights when she would be up late sewing, Jigen would come in and sit with her. They would say nothing, just relax in the quiet of each other's company. When she finished her work, she would silently slip her arm around his shoulders, and they would sleep until morning.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> When Jigen was eighteen, men broke down the door of his house. He heard his mother shouting, and gunshots being fired. He grabbed his rifle and ran to his mother's side. Men were in their house, demanding to know where his father was hiding. His father. The man they had left behind fifteen years ago. His mother told them this. The men searched the cabin anyways, their guns always aimed in the direction of the two. He didn’t know why they came. He didn’t know how they were found. Jigen held his mother tightly and demanded them leave. More gunshots, a scream. The world became blurry. At some point his hat got knocked off.</p><p> His mother was on the ground, red was seeping out of her arm and into her dress. She held onto her rifle tightly, and managed to pull the trigger. One of the men shouted. His eye twitched.</p><p> Someone had knocked him across the face with the butt of their gun. He struggled to maintain his balance. His eye twitched.</p><p> He sluggishly aimed his rifle. He couldn’t remember pulling the trigger, but he remembered the gun cracking like thunder. He couldn't see where it went, his bangs were free of the hat and were flowing wildly across his face. The world around him was getting blurry. He tried to focus. His eye twitched.</p><p> Another shot rang out, his shoulder exploded in a wave of agony as he fell to the floor. He heard his mother screaming. His name. She was yelling his name. His eye twitched.</p><p> He heard a heavy sound and the screaming stopped. The world stopped. His eye twitched.</p><p> He could feel thick hands roughly grabbing his wrists, his eyes stayed closed. He could feel his body being dragged across the ground. His shoulder flared with every movement. His eye twitched.</p><p> Someone had thrown him in a car. His arm was going numb as blood trickled down his chest. He could feel his ragged breathing slow as he faded off. His eye twitched.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> Jigen found himself in New York.</p><p> People wanted to know the location of his father. He could never understand why anyone would want to know that.</p><p> Jigen got away from them a few times. It was never for long.</p><p> Jigen stayed in New York.</p><p> Jigen learned of the business his father was associated with. He learned his father had been murdered while smuggling a ship crate of weapons over the border. He learned how easy people were to get rid. He learned how to survive with nothing but the clothes on his back. He made deals. He lost bets. He told people what they wanted to hear. He learned to shoot pistols, machine guns, sniper rifles, anything you could shoot a bullet out of. And he was good at it. He worked his way to the top of the chain. It was a <em> kill or be killed world </em>after all. He learned he was the best of his trade. He learned to hate his father.</p><p> He tried not to think about his mother. He couldn't. If she knew what he was doing, she would only be disappointed, and he couldn't deal with that. So he didn't.</p><p> He didn’t have people he would call family. He had bosses. Clients. Targets. </p><p> He had a kill count.</p><p> He wasn’t proud of it.</p><p> He drank whiskey. He smoked cigarettes. He told himself that it helped. He told himself that he was nothing like his father. </p><p>He didn’t have his hat. He lost outback when this all first started. He tried to get new hats. None of them felt right. Even though they all fit perfectly. They sat atop his head, out of his eyesight, just like any normal person would have it. You don't want it to get in the way of your shooting after all. He didn't like it. He bought a bigger hat. It fell into his face, it got in the way. He didn't like it. He ditched the hats, and styled his bangs to stay over his eyes. It wasn't professional, but he didn't care. It wasn't perfect, but he made it work. It was the best he could do. His bosses would poke fun at him. Those beneath him said he looked more like a moody teenager than a gunman. He would grease his hair back in an attempt to make them shut up. To just give him a moment's peace. It didn't work. The mocking was worse now, he would stumble more, his depth perception would be off, his eye would twitch badly and he'd miss a target. He gave up.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> Jigen was twenty-five when he saw his mother again.</p><p> He had botched a job. His vision went blurry at the worst time, he hit a target, but not the correct one. His superiors were going to kill him. He ran. He ran for a long time. He stayed across the country for a couple of months. He laid low the best he could, they nearly caught him once. He had let his guard slip too much, he was tired. It wasn’t like he was flaunting his eye around for everyone to see, but it was still noticeable. A few of the locals pointed him out. He woke up to his window being broken the next night, to gunshot breaking through the wall plaster, he got away with only a few bullet wounds. None of them fatal, and nothing he wasn't used to at this point. He kept himself hidden after that.</p><p> It was a chilly evening in late October when he noticed the sign. He had lost his jacket at some point along the way, and his money was taken in a game of poker. A game he ironically agreed to play in order to get <em> more </em> money, but luck just wasn't on his side. He was limping a bit from one of the gunshot wounds he received a few months ago. The rest had healed decently, but this one had hit him in just the right spot, apparently. </p><p> He looked up at the sign, it pointed towards a town twenty miles down the road. He recognized the sign. He was the one to fix it back when the hailstorm hit about nine years ago. It still had the dent from when he missed hitting the nail the first time. Jigen looked towards the town. He looked the opposite direction. He contemplated his options for a few minutes, maybe longer. It felt like an eternity. His eye twitched. He started walking.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> As he walked up to the porch, he noticed the cabin had aged considerably. It was still kept in fairly good condition, but not quite as pristine as he remembered. The garden was still there, but it had accumulated more weeds over the years. He noticed the old truck sitting behind the house, it looked rusted and barely used. The headlight was still busted.</p><p> As Jigen stepped up to the door, he considered turning around. This wasn't a good idea. What if she didn't live here anymore? What if she refused to see him? What if she had... no. No he wouldn't think about that. He couldn't. Jigen took a breath and rapped on the door.</p><p> He waited.</p><p> A moment passes.</p><p> Another.</p><p> His eye twitches.</p><p> He knocks again. Louder. Desperate.</p><p> Seconds tick by.</p><p> He feels his breath quicken.</p><p> His eye twitches.</p><p> He can't do this. Jigen turns the handle and opens the door. It's dark inside.</p><p> He looks across the main room, there's dust on the furniture. Not a lot, but more than she would ever allow. The kitchen area looks like it was carelessly thrown together. There's barely any food in the cabinets. He looks in the bedroom. Empty. The bed is made, but the blankets are dirty. Sewing supplies are left out on the side table. None of this is right. </p><p> None of it is right. </p><p> Jigen breathes. </p><p> Inhale… Exhale.</p><p> He breathes faster.</p><p> In. Out. In. Out.</p><p> He stops breathing.</p><p> He can’t breathe.</p><p> The pain in his knee is flaring up. His eye twitches. He can't stand up anymore. He finds himself on the ground. His head is spinning but the world is deathly still. His vision is going blurry, in both eyes not just the one. He vaguely feels water dripping down his face and landing in small puddles on the old floorboards below him. He's crying, his brain registers. He doesn't care.</p><p> No one is here to see it.</p><p> Jigen doesn't know how long he's been sitting there. Could've been minutes, could've been hours. He hears a creak coming from the front door. He must have forgotten to close it.</p><p> Jigen steps out from the room, halfheartedly wiping the tear stains off his face. Then he freezes.</p><p> His brown eyes widening, nearly coming into a fully clear focus on the figure in front of him.</p><p> The same brown eyes are staring back.</p><p> Jigen chokes on his own breath.</p><p> The woman drops the rifle and the animal skins she was carrying. </p><p>Jigen tries to speak. </p><p>“Mom--”</p><p>She rushes over and embraces him. She's shaking, or is it him? He feels the familiar hands holding onto his hair, still as rough and gentle as they always were. Someone is crying. It's definitely him this time, but maybe she is too. He's getting her hair wet but she doesn't seem to care. They stay like this for a while, neither of them want to move. Jigen won't be the first to step away, he has to make up for the past seven years. He won't leave again. He won’t do that to her again. Eventually she pulls back far enough to look up at him. He's taller than her now, if only by a few inches. </p><p> He struggles to start first. "Mom-" He <em> has </em> to start first. "I'm so sorry." He's choking on his words. "I never wanted to leave. I didn't- I didn't <em> want </em> to... I wanted to stay here. With you." He's speaking so softly now, he's not even sure if she can hear. She pulls him closer again. "I tried to come back sooner, <em> I swear I tried. </em> They wouldn't let me go. I couldn't come back without putting you in danger. Mom I-'' His voice was getting thick, "Mom I've done so many things... I know you're disappointed. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have come back. Mom I'm just like <em> dad </em>." He barely gets the last word out. She strokes his hair. She lets him cry for a minute before pulling him back.</p><p>"Daisuke" She says firmly. It's been <em> so long </em> since he's heard that name. "You are nothing like your father. You hear me? Don't you ever think you would even come close to comparison with that man." She takes his face in her hands, and brushes the hair from his vision. She looks him in the eyes, something only <em> she </em> could ever seem to do. "You are the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I've been waiting for the past seven years for you to walk through my door. Nothing you could do could ever disappoint me, Daisuke." She lets go of a few tears of her own and takes his hand in hers., "I'm your <em> mother </em> , and you can <em> always </em>come back home."</p><p> She kisses him on the forehead and takes a step back. He watches her walk into the bedroom, he hears a drawer being opened. She comes out with a familiar object held in her hands. He lets her set it on his head, it's a welcome comfort. One he'd been missing for years.</p><p>"It still suits you." She smiled, adjusting the brim the exact way she knows he likes it to be. His eye twitches as his vision clears up a bit.</p><p>"It does."</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> Things have changed. They're both older. She has grayer hair, and her right shoulder is stiffer than it used to be. Her eyesight is wearing down a bit, her movements are more tired, and she needs longer breaks in between work. </p><p> He walks a bit odd, his knees act up more than they should for someone his age. He's jumpier, his hair's shaggier, he's got a beard that stays untamed no matter how much he fusses with it. His voice is raspy. Just like hers.</p><p> But people change, and they both acknowledge this. He still sees the strong independent woman he's looked up to all his life. She still sees the awkward, thin boy with the crooked eye who would cry over the smallest mistake. Although he <em> has </em>grown up, she’ll stubbornly admit to herself. </p><p> He stays for as long as he can. Neither of them agree it was long enough. But they both know he would have to leave eventually. He takes the midnight train out of town, and their cabin remains untouched by outsiders.</p><p> He stays on the move, eventually leaving the country. He returns to the hitman lifestyle, but this time he does things his own way. He takes his own clients and refuses who he wants.</p><p> She receives postcards at least once a month. Sometimes he writes a small message, sometimes it's just a picture of a sunset or a landmark he thought she’d enjoy. She hangs them all up on the wall. There's always a sizable amount of money attached to the envelope, she saves up a lot of it, but he always makes sure she has enough to get by.</p><p> She deserves so much more, but this is all he knows to do from his situation.</p><p> There's never a return address on the postcards, but that's okay. She knows he can't stay in one location for too long.</p><p> And that’s fine. </p><p>  They live like this for a while. It’s a one-sided communication, but they make it work.</p><p> Until one day, about a decade later, she receives a larger envelope. This one does have a return address attached inside, with a wad of bills and a single message.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Going to be in France for a while. I think things are going to be okay." </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Holy crap.<br/>I'm counting this as the first fanfic I've ever written, so hopefully it reads well. I have a very strange love-hate relationship with writing, and this is the first personal project I've written that isn't a comic script in nearly five years.<br/>Anyways, I read a fic about a week ago that involved the Lupin gang meeting Jigen's mom for the first time, and I kinda fell in love with that concept. So paired with that, this weird HC I have about Jigen's eyesight, and like two sentences I though of at work; this fic was busted out in like five hours at 12am. Hooray.<br/>I might end up writing more in this AU, we'll have to see...<br/>If you want to, check out my Tumblr @lethalhedgehogs</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>